


I Wear My Fuck Ups Like a Diamond Ring

by Catchclaw



Category: DC's Legends of Tomorrow (TV)
Genre: Angst, Angsty Schmoop, Breaking and Entering, First Kiss, First Time, M/M, Schmoop, Season/Series 01, Sex Virus
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-04
Updated: 2016-12-04
Packaged: 2018-09-06 12:46:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,132
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8751985
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Catchclaw/pseuds/Catchclaw
Summary: Leonard and Mick catch a sex virus. And then Leonard makes a mistake.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [climb you like a tree on fire](https://archiveofourown.org/works/6067897) by [whiplash](https://archiveofourown.org/users/whiplash/pseuds/whiplash). 



It’s not as though Leonard’s never thought about it, what it’d be like to kiss Mick. It’s that he knows kissing Mick would be, to put it mildly, a cataclysmic mistake.

Mick isn’t his usual type, for one thing. He isn’t a guy Leonard just met or a girl whose name he’s done his best not to learn. He’d rather not know the people he fucks, is the thing.

And by god, does he know Mick Rory.

In lots of ways that are useful, ways that make them great thieves and better partners: how Mick responds in a fight, how far Leonard can push him, how to catch his eye unobtrusive when their backs are against the proverbial wall.

But he also knows a lot that isn’t important, stuff that doesn’t matter to anybody but Mick. He knows Mick’s preference in peanut butter, for example--Jif, crunchy, none of that Peter Pan shit. He knows that Mick eats Oreos from the inside out, that he likes to go grocery shopping in the middle of the night, that he has a thing for true crime shows and _Property Brothers_ and knows three drinking games for _Wheel of Fortune_ , only one of which involves Vanna White. That his scars, all that dead skin, itch like crazy in the winter, that he’d buy Lubriderm by the case if he could. He knows the one that got away was named Sabine, that she had four tattoos of ravens, that she was a gold star honey but a terrible, terrible girlfriend. He knows that she broke Mick’s heart.

Then there’s the stuff that sticks in Leonard’s craw.

The way Mick refuses to use his own toothbrush, always goes for Leonard’s instead. His insistence on reading InfoWars, for fuck’s sake, no matter how many times Leonard explains that it’s crap. That he’s shit at poker and refuses to admit it; he’s lost more than one score that way. That he breaks dishes just so he doesn’t have to wash them. That he worked two jobs with Captain Boomerang last year that he thinks Leonard doesn’t know about. That Leonard’s the only person he’s ever forgiven.

Leonard knows all of this. And yet, it hasn’t gone away, the part of him that wants Mick, that wants to touch him after a job, to put his hands on him when they’re both fucking high on it, being together, being so good at what they do.

There’s a litany in his head about Mick, twenty years deep and a half-dozen betrayals wide, and all of that knowledge, it boils down to one thing: they’re fine partners, the best, because of the perfectly uneasy balance between them. Wiggling the wire in any way would only send them tumbling, break their partnership in two. They’re already pushing it being out here, anyway, running around the timeline with a bunch of people they barely know. Their shit’s been rocky of late as it is.

So Leonard knows it’d ruin them, if he ever kissed Mick, ever asked for something more. Be a full-on apocalyptic mistake.

But now, with the damn Taramino virus in his blood, making his head feel like molasses, thick and slow and black coffee-hot, kissing Mick, touching Mick, fucking Mick is all he can think about.

“Hey,” Mick says, “we’re almost there. Hang on.”

He’s dragging Leonard through the woods, through snow that comes up to their knees. The weight of his hands feels good, very good, even through Leonard’s jacket, his sweater, his shirt. It isn’t enough.

“Mick,” he gets out, the sound heavy slick on his tongue. “ _Mick_.”

Mick doesn’t look at him, doesn’t stop moving. “I know,” he says. “I know, Lenny. It’s just up here, Gideon said.”

He’s lit up, too. Leonard knows it, can feel it--something in his system is singing to Mick’s. Mick wants him, too, wants to stop in the snow and get his hands on Leonard’s skin.  And oh, Leonard can’t think about that, goddamn it. He can’t. Or he’ll do something really stupid like unzip his pants, like grab Mick’s wrist, like pull him close, make him feel what he’s done to Leonard, what the virus has wrought, and then they’ll never make it inside.

Maybe it’d be easier if they were onboard the ship, not wandering around in the dark, but Hunter wouldn’t let them in.

Rip was full of it, frankly, since it was all his fault, them catching it. If only he’d had pulled his head out of his ass long enough to remember that not everyone was from the fucking twenty-second century, not everyone had the benefits of vaccines that kept you healthy in space and time, before blithely sending Leonard and Mick out into future Switzerland--the Federation of Sovereign Europa, whatever--currently home to an outbreak of the Taramino virus.

“Well, it isn’t fatal,” Rip had said over the comm, as if that made it ok. “And it burns itself out relatively quickly--12 to 24 hours from the onset of symptoms. In a day or so, you should be fine, gentlemen! But until then, I’m afraid, I can’t let either of you come onboard. You’ll have to find someplace to hole up till it passes.”

“But what _is_ it?” Leonard had said through his teeth, the first of the fever nipping at his heels. “What the hell did you let get us infected with?”

“A sex virus,” Hunter had coughed out, blushing British, and fuck him, he doesn’t know the half of it. Leonard feels like he’s being peeled alive inside, the fever scorching everything away, stripping him down to the studs, and all that’s left is _need_ , something more than desire, something he can’t control. And it’s worse than that, even, because Mick is here, feeling the same way, and maybe, Leonard thinks, digging his nails under Mick’s collar, it’d be ok to touch him like this. Just a little, just enough to--

And then they’re out of the woods, all at once, the sky opening above them, framing a chalet that cuts steep angles against the dark. They stagger to a stop and stand there for a moment.

“Huh,” Mick says. “Right where it’s supposed to be.”

Directions over the comm, words Leonard can barely remember-- _south_ , _kilometer_ , _forest_ \--what matters now is getting inside. Leonard knows this. They really need to get in.

The thought isn’t enough, though, it can’t can’t stop him from curling into Mick’s arms, from planting his face in Mick’s throat.

“The door,” Leonard get out, setting the words into Mick’s skin. “C’mon, you fucker. Open the door.”

Mick shudders, gets a hand on Leonard’s head and holds him there, flush. “Yeah,” he says, “I know. I’m tryin’.”

But he doesn’t move, not in the right way; instead, he turns his face to Leonard’s and kisses him. It punches Leonard’s breath out, that kiss, like a shot of scotch that goes on and on and he opens his mouth, gasping for air, and Mick is right there to meet him, all teeth and glorious tongue.

The door stops being important. Inside vs. outside, a warm bed or the cold, cold front steps--distinctions now without a difference. What matters is Mick, that he’s here, that his skin feels like honey under Leonard’s palms--the rails of Mick’s stomach, the turn of his sides, the sweet furnace that is his mouth. And Mick’s touching him, too, his fingers shoved into Leonard’s coat, under his sweater, past his shirt, and it feels like Mick’s tracing the edges of his very core, the center of him, what’s left when the last layers of the world are gone and there’s this, only this.

“The door,” Mick mutters, gravel inside Leonard’s ear. “Lenny. We gotta get in.”

He doesn’t wait for an answer, just hauls Leonard by the waist and manhandles him up the stairs and onto the porch. Leonard lets him gets a hand on the doorknob before he kisses Mick again, long and dirty, before Mick pins him to the frame and licks into his mouth, before he gets a knee between Leonard’s legs and now they’re really, truly fucked.

Mick pushes Leonard away, pins him like a butterfly in blonde wood. He’s panting, Mick, his eyes like backlit diamonds, and Leonard may be delirious, but goddamn, he thinks, Mick is beautiful. Especially when he puts his fist through the door and shoulders in, tugging Leonard behind.

“Fuck,” somebody says. Maybe both of them do. “You’re wearing too many clothes.”

At first they work at odds, their hands colliding as they try to strip each other down, until Leonard shakes Mick off, gets some distance, pushes Mick’s coat from his shoulders and shoves down his suspenders, and then Mick gets it, too, rips Leonard’s sweater dead center, tears at his shirt until Leonard gets it over his head. They turn around the room, shove each other through the dark until Mick trips, falls into something, Leonard tumbling after. He land in a heap, half in Mick’s lap, half on what feel like cushions--ah, it’s a couch--and for a moment, nobody moves, their arms and legs twisted.

So he shifts, Leonard does, plants his knees to Mick’s hips and straddles him, skin to skin. There are no more shirts, no more parkas, just chest to chest, flesh against flesh. Mick makes a glorious sound when they touch, like a pornographic choir, and Leonard has to kiss him, then, has to see what that sound tastes like. It’s something not unlike the divine.

He lifts his lips, just a whisker, and Mick arches, makes the hottest pained noise.

“Lenny,” he grits out, his arms going tight around Leonard’s waist. “No. Please.”

“Yes,” Leonard says. “Yes.”

He finds Mick’s mouth again, and again, and then they can’t stop kissing, can’t do anything but rock together, a push-pull that makes Leonard fucking see starlight.

Mick cups his ass, tugs at the back of Leonard’s pants, plea unspoken but clear, and Leonard would take them off, he would, but he’s caught in something he can’t control, a fever that fuses them together undeniable, inescapable. Desperate.

There’s only one other person Leonard's felt tangled up in like this: Quinn, the first boy he’d ever slept with. He’d just gotten out of juvie, round one, and everything on the outside was too much. The world looked different every day, the wrong noises at the wrong times, too many people he’d never seen before, would never see again, and he wasn’t used to that yet, the ways things are always in flux on the outside. No routine, nothing to count on, to plan for. Nobody watching his back. He hadn’t realized how much he’d miss it, the inside, knowing what each minute of the day had in store.

So he’d hardened himself, clung tight to fight or flight, wandered around for weeks deadened to most things, to most people.

And then he'd met Quinn. At a mall, maybe? An arcade? Some place with cheap soda and lots of people not watching their money. Quinn was in high school, like Leonard should’ve been. He was on the debate team. He played baseball. He had a little brother named Alex, a mom and dad who made them all sit down for dinner each night and called it "family time.”

He had a couch the color of the rust belt and he loved winding Leonard into it after school, in the hour that the house was quiet, that it was theirs, before his mom got home from her job at the hospital. It was desperate, that hour, kissing as fast as they could, clawing at each other's belts, groaning in something like tandem. Their cocks in Quinn’s fist, this soft spiral drag. The sweet shock the first time Leonard came like that, with another person pressed against him, wanting him, wanting only to be there with him. Melting into the cushions for a few minutes, after, Quinn breathing heavy in his hair, Leonard's hand on Quinn's back, counting the curves of his spine.

That's what it feels like, what it tastes like, being with Mick now: like if he isn’t kissing Mick, isn’t running his fingers down the rivers of scars, isn’t sliding a hand between them and yanking at Mick’s zipper, isn’t drawing the heat out of him with every stroke, every touch, that he’ll die, something in him will, and god, Leonard’s never wanted to be alive so much in his life.

“Sweetheart,” Mick slurs, the word pulled out like taffy. “Jesus fuck. Gonna make me come.”

His hands are clamped on Leonard’s thighs and he’s searing his prints into Leonard’s flesh, he must be, burning away the fabric and leaving his mark, and Leonard feels like starstuff or something from the way Mick’s looking at him, the way his hips are moving, the way he’s groaning, high and tight, like having Leonard touch him is the best goddamn thing in the world.

And when he comes, he buries his face against Leonard’s throat and lets the bells ring; low, hungry peals that sink into Leonard’s body, bury themselves in his bones.

He draws himself out, now, he can’t help it, pulls his cock free and fumbles for Mick’s hand.

“Please,” he gets out, each syllable a struggle. “Please.”

Mick rumbles something, presses their foreheads together and opens his hand. No fist, no tight grip, no. He pets Leonard instead, teases the shaft and the crown with the tips of his fingers. It’s not--Leonard’s back arches, chasing what Mick isn’t giving--it’s not what Leonard expected.

“Shhh,” Mick says. “Shhhh.”

His cock is hot, an iron brand in Mick’s hand, and the virus is screaming at him, half-fever delirious: he has to come, he has to come _now_ , but--

Mick’s thumb on his lips. “Open up for me, sweetheart. Good. That’s good.” Two fingers on his tongue, gentle, insistent, and gods, Mick tastes good. Like woodsmoke and evergreen.

“Suck on them, yeah,” Mick says. “Just like that.”

His eyes are bright, beacons in the shadows of the chalet, and Leonard’s trapped in them, fast. He doesn’t look away. He doesn’t want to.

Mick slips his fingers out, drops them down to Leonard’s cock and slicks it up, smears Leonard’s spit down the head, fists him at the base.

“Ok,” he mutters. “Ok, Lenny.”

He jerks Leonard hard and slow, the way Leonard would do it himself, making himself wait for it, the next slide of his hand, but it’s better like this, with Mick doing it, Mick whispering nonsense in his ear and dragging him through it, to it, and then the virus catches up to them, to him, bellows in his blood, takes him over, and he comes like a hurricane, a downpour of spunk in Mick’s fist, thunder all around them, the wind, even when his body has nothing else left to give, he’s lit up with pleasure, the sun breaking through after the storm.

He drops his head on Mick’s shoulder and Mick strokes his back, smears Leonard’s slick into his skin. He’s hard again already, his cock fat and angry against Leonard’s stomach, his breathing ragged and sweet. Part of Leonard want to go to his knees, to draw his tongue up the inside of Mick’s thighs, to taste him, to watch Mick’s face when he comes like that, his cock buried deep in Leonard’s mouth. But part of him wants this, too: to be close, a few moments unhurried. He want to remember this, if he can. What it feels like to be in Mick’s arms.

Then Mick groans, a sound that sings in the eaves. “Lenny,” he says, insistent, his nails in Leonard’s ribs. “Come on. Come here. I need you.”

The lava in Leonard’s body spikes--call and response of the virus, he thinks, dim--and he’s groaning back, clutching at Mick’s neck, kissing him in a frenzy. Mick wants him. He wants Mick, and the only way through this is together.

“Yes,” Leonard says in Mick’s ear.

“Yes,” Leonard whispers later, rubbing his cheek on Mick’s thigh.

“Yes,” Leonard hisses, later still, sinking down on Mick’s cock, taking the last of him in, watching the sunrise unfold on Mick’s face, battling with the strain in Mick’s eyes, the pure want. He claws Mick’s shoulders and holds him tight, holds them flush. “Come on, Mick. Come _on_. I need you.”

“Mmmm,” Mick says, rolling his hips just a little, just enough to make Leonard forget how to breathe. “Lenny. I’m right here.”

 

________________

 

When Leonard wakes up, it’s disorienting as hell. He doesn’t remember falling asleep.

The last thing he remembers is Mick, bent over him like some sexed-up gargoyle, biting his lip, working his fingers inside, making Leonard come senseless, the sound of his own voice, hoarse and hot, and then--

Leonard blinks.

It’s daylight now, good and proper. The room’s awash in rose gold from the sun sloping in the windows, from the fire that’s roaring hale in the hearth.

He sits up and fuck, _fuck_ , he’s sore. He’s too old to sleep on a couch, much less to fuck on one.  

He runs a hand over his chest, his neck, feeling the contrails of Mick’s nails and his teeth. His back aches and his legs feel like Jello. He’s in desperate need of a shower.

But what he doesn’t feel, thank the gods, is the fever.

He throws up his arms. “Taramino,” he crows, “has left the building. Hallelujah.”

A snort from somewhere behind him. “Yeah. No shit.” Mick wanders in, naked, a wine bottle in one hand and a package of crackers in the other. “Nice of you to rejoin the living, boss. Some of us have been up for hours.”

Leonard laughs. “Word choices, Mick.”

“Hmmm,” Mick says. “Found the kitchen. Scootch over.”

Leonard does, but not before relieving him of the crackers. They’re dry as dead toast and taste like cardboard, but god, he’s fucking starving.

Mick takes a swig straight out of the bottle and squints at the flames. “The front door’s a goner,” he says. “Managed to get it mostly closed, though.”

“Eh. We’ll leave a tip for room service.”

They sit in silence for a while. It’s not an uncomfortable one.

“I called you sweetheart,” Mick says, finally.

“You did. More than once, as I recall.”

“Huh.”

Leonard looks over and Mick’s frowning, his face contorted like he’s trying to do calculus in his head. “Should we talk about this, or should we pretend it never happened?”

That gets Mick’s attention. “How the hell would we do that?”

Shit. “I’m not advocating for that course of action, necessarily,” Leonard says. “I’m curious what you think.”

Mick raises an eyebrow. “Since when?”

“Since now. Since this is something we have to agree on. We were in this together, after all.”

Mick doesn’t look away, doesn’t answer. The air between them pulls like piano wire, taut. Normally, Leonard would win any staring contest of wills, but now, he still can feel Mick’s spunk on his skin, can see the roses he sucked into Mick’s neck, can still taste Mick on his tongue, and hell, he thinks, fuck talking.

He pitches over, the crackers clutched in his fist, and kisses Mick. It feels different without the virus leading him on. The certainty is gone, the polar pull of his body to Mick’s. But the shape of Mick’s mouth is the same. It still fits his something perfect, except--

Except--

Mick isn’t kissing him back.

Leonard recoils, a hand to a hot flame.

Mick is stone still. A statue. He’s fucking cold. “What was that?”

Something in Leonard sinks, an iceberg in reverse. He knew this would happen. He _knew_. What the hell is he doing? Especially now, far from home and way out of their orbits. Maybe they’d have been able to come back from this, no problem, if Leonard had kept his mouth shut. But now? Who the hell knows? Maybe Leonard’s smashed it for good this time.

He should have known better.

“That,” Leonard says, letting the stung roll off his tongue, “was a mistake.”

“Hey. Boss--”

Leonard stands up, feels the pieces of his armor snapping back into place. “Get your gear on, Mick. We’re leaving in five. Make sure we don’t leave anything behind. Don’t want to fuck up the timeline because you can’t clean up your mess.”

He turns his back before Rory can answer. There’s nothing more he needs to hear, anyway. He got the message. Loud and clear.

It’s not hard to find their way back to the Waverider. All they have to do is follow the drunken path they carved in the snow last night, great zigzags of drag through the forest, down a hill, and into a clearing.

Fuck it, Leonard thinks. Fuck this goddamn sex virus of the future that just happened to give him a glimpse of what life would be like with Mick, as partners in more ways than one. He glares up at the blue, blue sky, at the storybook mountains around them. He hates seeing something he can’t have. It’s what makes him such a fucking good thief. Shame he’s finally found the one thing he wants that there’s no way he can steal.

Mick trails along behind him, cursing at the snow. He doesn’t say a word to Leonard.

It’s a long, cold walk home.

About a hundred yards from the ship, Leonard hits his comm. “Honey,” he says. “We’re home.”

There’s a burst of sound on the other end. “Mr. Snart!” Rip says. “Welcome back. All in one piece, I trust?”

Leonard’s out of patience for niceties. “Open the damn door, Hunter.”

“Just a minute. Gideon’s completing a scan of your systems.”

“Great.”

“Boss,” Mick says. “I think I fucked something up.”

“Highly likely,” Leonard says, looking right past him. “Any _time_ , Gideon.”

“Scanning complete. Congratulations, gentlemen. You’re both clear of Taramino.”

“Wonderful!” Rip chirps. “Open the cargo bay. If you would step to it, Mr. Snart, Mr. Rory. We have someplace to be.”

“Don’t we always?”

Mick grabs Leonard’s arm. “Lenny, I need to--”

The air in front of them shivers and Leonard shakes him off. “Whatever it is, it can wait.”

“ _Lenny_ ,” Mick says again, but Leonard’s three steps ahead, marching towards the ramp where it’s peeled down out of the ether. Sara’s there, waiting. She looks like the cat that ate the goddamn canary. Kendra’s at her side, Jax bobbing between them and grinning, Palmer looming above all of them and waving. Of course he’s waving.

“Hail, hail, the gang’s all here,” Leonard says.

Sara laughs. “Hell yes. Nobody wanted to miss your walk of shame.”

“It’s hardly an occasion for shame, Miss Lance,” Stein says, frowning over her shoulder. “They were under the influence of a very powerful biologic invader. Any actions they may have taken while under its influence--”

“You look busted,” Jax says, helpful.

Leonard hits the top of the ramp, knocks his hood back. “What can I say? It was a long night.”

“I’ll bet,” Kendra says, _sotto voce_ , and the peanut gallery giggles, fucking _giggles_. Even Stein.

Leonard rolls his eyes. Is this what he has to look forward to, this junior high level BS? Fantastic.

Then Mick’s behind him, his hand on Leonard’s elbow like a vise. “Len!”

Leonard pivots, exhausted and embarrassed and on the last legs of his patience. “What the hell?” he says, or tries to, because--

Because--

Because it’s hard to get words out with Mick’s tongue in his mouth, his fingers on the back of Leonard’s neck, holding him still, holding him fast.

Oh.

He leans into it, into Mick, and it’s good, this kiss, better than their first, even though it’s slow, this time, and careful, because now, it’s just him and Mick. Here they are. Together.

“It wasn’t a mistake,” Mick mutters, his breath hot on Leonard’s cheek. “That’s what I was trying to say. It just took me a minute. I’m not so good at words, sometimes.”

Leonard kisses him again, because he can, because Mick wants him to. “It’s ok,” he says, after. “Neither am I.”

He lifts his head and the team is beaming, grinning like idiots, all of them. Except Palmer.

“Wait a minute,” Ray says, looking back and forth between them. “Is this new? You guys weren’t, like”--he waggles his hands--”already? Before? I--Oh, wow. Wow.”

Mick growls, a lion that’s laughing, and grabs for Leonard’s hand, starts tugging him through the crowd, towards the door that’s open for them, now.

“Trust me, Raymond,” Leonard says, tossing the words over his shoulder, “You’re not the only one who’s got a lot left to learn.”

**Author's Note:**

> Title borrowed with love from the lyrics of "Antonio America" by Diskopunk.


End file.
